Blind
by trinchardin
Summary: The scout finds that there are tracks even he cannot read. [TristanLancelot]
1. Blind Spot

**blind spot**, n., a part of one's understanding where one's judgment does not act fairly or competently (Webster)  
  
Title: Blind Spot  
Author: trinchardin  
Fandom: King Arthur  
Pairings: Various  
Category: Angst/Romance  
Rating: PG13  
Summary: Tristan is blindsided.  
Disclaimer: The myth owns itself, Touchstone Pictures owns the movie.  
  
He is a more than competent scout. It is not pride, simpy a statement of fact. Its proof is his continued days above ground, and those of his fellow knights. Mistakes have led to lives lost, and he marks each one in his heart even if they may leave none on his skin. He can read a trail three days old, and hear a legion's march miles away on stone-cold ground. It is a gift from the gods, and one he does not take lightly.  
  
Yet, it is not only on the field that he keeps a sharp eye. He is not one who likes to be caught off his guard, so he is constantly on the look out, even as the others rest. Over the years, he has watched them at mock-sparring or drinking, anytime their own guard is down. He believes he knows them even more than they know themselves.   
  
Bors first look is always to the barrack gates each time they return. He seeks to reassure a familiar face, at the same time, counting each accompanying head. There is a quick softening of the eyes that another might miss. Ignorance of this slip leaves most to wonder why Vanora stays or at the fondness that the rag-tag group has for him.  
  
Dagonet is more unsure of himself than the others imagine. When faced with his reflection, he takes careful note of each new scar. It is the same way his gaze lingers on Bors' children, except with tenderness instead of disgust. There is also the hungry longing when Kay's daughter enters a room, dark eyes drawn to the golden head.   
  
Galahad is just as fond of blondes, while Gawain favors dark-haired beauties. They do not realize that with each woman they bed, they first take a sideway's look at each other. In the weighing, the women are always found wanting, but they bed them anyway. What would otherwise have been a moment's tumble for them after the battle rush is hindered by the subconscious knowledge that they'd want more after the quenched lust.  
  
Arthur always slips away before each mission to murmur platitudes and petitions to his God. Everyone knows that, but only two notice the catch in his voice when time comes to bury the fallen. Only they see the gleam of guilt that lurks in his eyes. The other person is Lancelot, and that is because he is the other's shadow. For all his talk of wenching, Tristan knows that those dark eyes turn to Arthur more than ten-fold the number of women he beds. Nor is the man as self-involved as most think. Of all the others, only he feels Tristan's eyes watching, and just as often, he turns to look right back.  
  
So, it is only a slight surprise when the other corners him in a dark corridor and roughly steals a kiss laced with the wine which drove him to the deed. Yet, the more disconcerting thought for Tristan is that he returns the kiss.

* * *

for _Shibbie_, who introduced me to the possibility of Tristan/Lancelot


	2. Blindside

**blind-side**, tr.v., [1] to hit or attack on or from the blind side; [2] to catch or take unawares, especially with harmful or detrimental results.  
  
Title: Blind-side  
Author: trinchardin  
Fandom: King Arthur  
Pairing/s: Tristan/Lancelot, implied Arthur/Lancelot  
Category: Angst/Romance  
Rating: R  
Summary: [Second in Blind Trilogy] Tristan stumbles in the darkness.  
Disclaimer: The myth owns itself, Touchstone Pictures owns the movie.  
  
There was something primal about their coupling. He felt like he was exorcising Arthur in laying a claim to Lancelot. He held the younger man down, bruising arms and nipping the soft skin of his neck. Attempts of the other to stifle his shouts outraged Tristan. He pushed the pillow to the floor, making the tousled dark head hit the pallet with a thud. Hearing the shouts interspersed with whimpers was an affirmation he needed. The whisper of his name stirred his blood. Taking Lancelot that way was to remind the other that he wasn't Arthur. No gentleness would be found from him. He was no man's replacement.  
  
When it was over, he let Lancelot rest a damp head underneath his chin, and placed a possessive arm around the other, though not drawing him close. Before sleep claimed him, Lancelot turned his head to bestow a kiss, a flashback of what started the frenzy. Tristan could still taste the wine on bruised lips. His last thought that night was '_mine_'. And when rosy dawn came with promise of a new day, he left without a word or sound, dressing with quiet efficiency and leaving no trace he had even been there but the marks on the other's body. Everyone left tracks, even him. For once, he wanted it known.  
  
Lancelot only joined them at noon, seemingly none the worse for wear, but for the impressions on his neck. Gawain teased him of his wildcat lover and the previous night's shouts. Smiling roguishly, and avoiding Tristan's steely gaze, Lancelot's riposte was that the other just didn't know how to bed a real woman. Even as he calmly peeled an apple with sure, practiced strokes, Tristan could feel the half-moons on his unprotected palm weep crimson around his blade. He left before Lancelot was done with his meal.  
  
This time, it was he who cornered the other. No dark corridor now, but the cool chiaroscuro of the stables at late afternoon. In a secluded corner, Lancelot came undone at his touch, mouth hungry and hands eager. Yet, even when he'd placed the other on his knees, there was a hollowness inside of Tristan, a pain he could not name or understand. He pulled the other up and pushed him back to the wall. Looking into those gleaming eyes, he found he could no longer hold back his tongue, and he spoke for once on impulse.  
  
"What are you more ashamed of? That I'm a man, or that I'm not Arthur?"  
  
He watched the light in those dark eyes die, sunlight swiftly ovecome by a storm of surprise and pain. The stable doors' slam punctuated the sound of rushed footsteps. Yet, what decided the matter was the soft hitch of breath that spoke of a flood held back only by sheer will. It was like a mace to his stomach, leaving him fighting to breathe.  
  
How could he have been so horribly wrong in reading the other's signs? 


	3. Blindsight

**blindsight**, n., the ability of a blind person to sense the presence of a light source.   
  
Title: Blindsight  
Author: trinchardin  
Fandom: King Arthur  
Pairing/s: Tristan/Lancelot, slight Gawain/Galahad  
Category: Angst/Romance  
Rating: PG13  
Summary: [Third in Blind Trilogy] Tristan regains his bearings.  
Disclaimer: The myth owns itself, Touchstone Pictures owns the movie.  
  
He does not apologize. It is not that he is too proud to admit a wrong. No, he is more afraid of what comes after, be it acceptance or rejection. He cannot think straight as it is, and every trail seems to lead back to Lancelot. Yet, he manages to stay away, finding sanctuary in the surrounding woods or scouting trips. It is dangerous, and he can never sleep soundly, but it is the same in the fort and among the other knights anyway. At least, the Woads he knows how to deal with.  
  
All thoughts of the younger man are ruthlessly reined in, and he finds other things to observe. It is tempting to chance a look, but as with all weaknesses, he has trained himself to resist. Now, the tables are turned. He has made encounters rare and pretends not to notice. But, when it cannot be helped, he is all too aware of the other's glances, scorching anger that has died down to embers of hurt and confusion. Arthur already notices this, and his disapproving looks are another thing to be ignored. Of the others, perhaps Dagonet suspects something as well.   
  
Yet, despite all his measures, Tristan fails. In battle, he has to be fully aware of each and everyone. It is not a matter of knowing that friendly fire isn't, for his arrows have never failed to hit their intended target. No, it is simply a necessary knowledge of each knight's situation on the field, so that he might aid them if need be. Nothing can change the fact that they are brothers-in-arms, sworn to protect each other. In those moments, his emotional defenses are down, and he is entirely susceptible to his protective instincts. Lancelot's presence stands out, an intangible yet undeniable light in the darkness of the dead and dying around them.  
  
So, when an battle ax is aimed at Lancelot's back, he steps in its way without a thought. It catches him in the chest, his armor not enough to protect him from the impact of the blow or the rough biting edge. Pain courses through his right side, but not before he has sent a blade at the attacker's throat. This will take time to heal, and he may not use his arm for days, but he has no regrets.   
  
In the aftermath, Lancelot finds him leaning against a tree, tending to his wound. Without a word, the other takes on the task, face pale and lips a drawn line. It is almost as if he is the one in pain - perhaps, it is partly so. His hands try to be gentle, but his fingers tremble and Tristan's skin sings at the touch.  
  
"What were you thinking?"  
  
"I wasn't."  
  
Their eyes meet then, but only because Tristan cannot turn away, not when the other is so close. He surrenders to temptation. His uninjured arm reaches to touch the smooth planes of a face mapped out in his mind, and Lancelot leans into his callused hand, though the dark eyes are half-lidded, wary of the unexpected tenderness.  
  
"You cloud my judgment."  
  
It was no apology. Far from it. 'Twas a blunt statement sharpened by the accusation it held. Lancelot heard it for what it was, and accepted with bowed head, eyes no longer willing to look into his.  
  
"So, what happens then?"  
  
The uncertainty of the whisper made Tristan pull away, resting his head back to look at the darkening sky. It held no answer, but he did not expect it to. He already knew what it was after all. They only had so much time given to them, sparring with death as they did. One should not ignore the gifts of the gods for they might take offense, and your life and happiness with it. When he lifted up the other's face for a soft kiss, hands clutched at his blood-stained tunic in response, bringing him closer, skin rasping against skin.  
  
Though caught in the other's sweetness, the edges of his consciousness called out a warning. His sharp senses felt the newcomer's presence even before the crackle of wild brush sounded. Yet, he recognized who it was, and his lips paused waiting for his companion's judgment. For a moment, his heart stilled, but it revived at the hard yank on his braids and the fierce kiss spiked with the cooper of blood. He met this force with a soft curve of lips. As the sounds of a clumsy retreat faded, he wondered in amusement if they'd done someone a favor.  
  
Later, when they returned together, no one said a word. Perhaps it was because Bors was already fast asleep. Arthur and Dagonet just exchanged knowing looks, and Gawain was too intent on trying to watch a drowsy Galahad without being caught. The long-haired warrior caught Tristan's smirk though, and a slight flush of the cheeks betrayed him before he turned back to Galahad. Then, the fire was banked for the night, and everyone started to settle down. As he did so, Tristan could sense Lancelot at first watch. The warmth of his presence and the feel of those dark eyes on him were the last he knew before sleep came. 


End file.
